The morning after signing their contracts, the five former NPJW wrestlers found themselves standing outside the IRW building, duffel bags in hand and expressions that were a mix of excitement and uncertainty.
It all felt a bit surreal. Just a week ago, they were gearing up to revive NPJW after a rough patch in the promotion wars. Now, here they were, working for the very company that had come out on top against them.
At the entrance, they were greeted by Lance Dawson. Unlike Vince, Lance didn't have that intimidating presence; instead, he exuded a calm confidence that came from years of experience, flashing a warm smile that immediately eased the tension in the air.
"Morning, gentlemen," Lance said, clapping his hands together. "Welcome to IRW! Before you dive into training, let me give you a little tour."
He led them through the facility, and it was a world apart from NPJW's cramped offices and rundown warehouse. IRW buzzed with energy.
Production crews hurried down the hallways with lighting rigs, editors were busy piecing together highlights from the latest show, and office staff were answering phones under vibrant posters promoting upcoming events.
"Are you guys always this busy?" one of the wrestlers, Bob, asked.
"Only on weekdays," Lance joked with a chuckle. When he noticed their confused expressions, he added, "We're even busier on weekends!"
A few hesitant smiles broke through the group's nerves as Lance continued to show them around the production, editing, marketing, medical, and costume departments.
The former NPJW wrestlers exchanged glances—their old promotion barely had a functioning medical kit, let alone a full-fledged medical department.
When Lance swung open the doors to the training center, the newcomers were momentarily taken aback.
Instead of the grim, high-pressure atmosphere they had anticipated, the gym was filled with laughter. Victor Cross and Randal Savage were in the midst of a lively debate over who had cheated during a weightlifting contest.
Nearby, Andre was busy helping Grant Austin perfect his deadlift form, while Mason Brooks playfully tripped a sprinting Diego Cortez, sending him tumbling across the mats to the amusement of everyone around.
On the other side of the room, Maya Hart, Nina Clarkson, and Torrie Wilson were deep in conversation between their stretches, and even Tracey Prince was sharing a laugh with a trainer, getting a little too cozy.
There was no sense of fear in the air. No one was tiptoeing around.
"Is this really a wrestling promotion?" one of the newcomers whispered.
"We're professionals," Lance replied with a light-hearted chuckle.
"It... doesn't feel like it."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said with a grin.
Bob looked around, surprised. "So... people here actually like each other?"
Victor Cross, overhearing the question, strolled over with a towel draped around his neck. "Not always," he said, causing the five to tense up immediately. But then he flashed a grin. "We beat each other up for a living. But once the match is over, it's over." He extended his hand.
"Victor Cross."
In no time, the IRW roster gathered around the newcomers, showering them with warm welcomes, training tips, and friendly sparring invitations.
The difference was striking. At NPJW, every practice felt like a battle for survival, where wrestlers clung to their spots, feared management, and eyed each other with suspicion. Here, the veterans were eager to help the newcomers grow.
Watching Andre patiently tweak Grant's footwork, one of the former NPJW wrestlers shook his head in disbelief. "In NPJW... if someone was struggling, they'd just laugh at you."
Lance nodded thoughtfully. "I figured. But that's not how Vince wants this place to run."
As the five wrestlers began to settle into their new environment, Vince was across town managing a completely different venture.
With the momentum from IRW driving his dreams forward, the factory leased by Maston Holdings was officially gearing up for the production of the Eden Phone.
Technicians were busy positioning machinery, assembly lines were meticulously organized, and engineers were testing the electrical grids set for non-stop operations.
In the heart of the factory floor stood Carl Holler, sporting a hard hat that seemed a tad too large for him. Just a few months back, he was working out of a garage; now, dozens of technicians were looking to him for guidance.
Noticing the anxiety etched on Carl's face, Vince stepped up beside him. "You've got this."
"I've never managed this many people before," Carl confessed, adjusting his glasses nervously. "What if they ask me something I can't answer?"
"You built the phone, so you can definitely handle their questions," Vince reassured him.
Carl blinked in surprise. "Really?"
"Absolutely."
Taking a deep breath, Carl approached the crew and cleared his throat. "Hi everyone, I'm Carl Holler, the creator of the Eden Phone."
As he delved into the technical specifics—circuit boards, display assemblies, battery integration, and quality control—his initial nervousness faded, replaced by a newfound confidence. Vince observed from a distance, feeling a sense of pride. The young inventor had undeniable talent; he just needed the space to flourish.
With Carl now leading the production, Vince made his way back to Maston Holdings headquarters, where Gavin was waiting with a fresh stack of documents.
"Everything's set," Gavin said as he took a seat. "We've secured the convention hall for the expo, media outlets are on board, and potential customers are confirmed. Retail negotiations are still in progress, but several major chains are showing interest."
Gavin handed over another file. "The $30 million loan from the Bank of Federation has been officially approved."
To secure the financing, Maston Holdings had put up some serious collateral: its shares in Dongle and a twenty-five percent stake in Vox.
Now, any traditional businessman might have hesitated at such a risk, but Vince? He didn't even blink. Dongle's search engine was quickly taking over the market, and Vox's viewership was soaring thanks to IRW and basketball. For Vince, the risk felt more like a mirage—the growth of these assets would far outstrip the loan value in just a few years.
"I still think we're taking a massive gamble," Gavin remarked, leaning back in his chair.
"We are," Vince replied, his tone steady.
"You don't sound worried."
"I'm not."
Gavin chuckled. "I can't tell if that's confidence or insanity."
"Probably a bit of both."
After sharing a brief laugh, Gavin shifted to the main issue at hand. "So, how are we actually going to sell this thing? Building it is just half the battle. People have never seen a touchscreen phone before. They won't understand why they should shell out top dollar for something they don't even know they need."
Vince leaned back, reminiscing about the iconic product launches from his previous life. Apple hadn't just sold gadgets—they had sold a vision of the future through anticipation, demonstration, and storytelling.
As he gazed out the window at the Dodge skyline, the answer suddenly clicked.
He owned Vox, one of the fastest-growing national networks, with millions tuning in every week for IRW and prime-time shows.
"What better way to introduce a groundbreaking phone than through television?" Vince mused, a confident smile spreading across his face. "We're not just making commercials, Gavin. We're going to make people feel like they're witnessing the future unfold right before their eyes."